Still finding my footing
Poetry to hold us during these times
Hello.
It’s mid-January and I am still finding my footing in a year that doesn’t quite feel new yet—and which, I remind myself is still being made.
Truthfully, my voice is a little shaky right now. My body navigating the liminal space with more vulnerability than I’d care to admit. In our small bubble, we’ve experienced the flu and then COVID for the last week, staying home with our very active three and a half year old while the world outside…
And I’m at a loss for words.
In these times, when so much feels on the line, when this moment in history feels urgent and pivotal, I find myself reaching for clarity, confidence, and concise, bullet point actions with tangible results…and coming up empty.
Perhaps I am really reaching for connection.
For enough spaciousness to hold the truth of what’s happening, the truth of how it’s landing in our bodies, how it’s breaking our hearts but maybe, also, letting them open.
Please, please let them open.
Help us to see beyond what is so we can dream of what will be, and get to work making it. And yet, help us not to look away from what is because we are the witnesses the world needs. We are the eyes needed to see, the hands needed to touch, the voices needed to speak, even when they are shaking.
I am still finding my footing—the ground shifting beneath me yet again as we hurtle through space, retracing ancient orbits around the sun, held in place by the gift of gravity.
Held in place by FaceTime calls with friends, by watching seasons of Animal Control and letting laughter ring through tired vocal chords. Held by the courage of others—that collective resource we share, a well filled by every brave act, seen and unseen.
I am held in place by your presence, art, and poetry.
When words have failed me before (and they will again), poetry has helped me find my way through the dark. Here are a few poems of mine from the archives that speak to these times.
(These poems hold images of grief, violence, and protest. Please read with care).
News Reports From My Grandmother
The Taliban have entered Kabul! Canada is on fire! The virus is mutating! Invisible to our naked eye we breathe in smoke, disease, disaster. My grandmother waits patiently for the world to end, a final apocalypse she turns gaze heavenward sure a Savior is coming. The Herald of bad news, a curator of tragedy, “We are in a state of hopelessness, redemption a feat beyond our capability,” she cries. The news anchors seem to agree, reporting the worst of humanity- floods, famines, war. We are scarce and scared, better off dying and dead. I say I don’t watch the news but this isn’t true. I watch the daily turning of leaves from green to red, listen to the birds report each day’s dawn. I hear my friends celebrate their firstborn, eyes mirroring their joy, my body’s own story like braille, hunger and grief, raised bumps on skin. These headlines are subtle, do not shout or coerce, require a deep, slow unfolding, absent fear and adrenaline. Yet the visuals are no less stunning- a broken blue egg speaks of first flight, wings unfurled in spite of a burning sky. The first time holding a paintbrush dipped in brilliant hues, or the thousandth time hands touch piano keys, nimble notes a hymn or prayer of praise. We are more than despair, disappointment and greed. Breaking news can also mend, today’s headline reminds: The Stars Still Shine in the Darkest of Night (and so must we).
In the time of black house flies
Children played with toy guns marching in file armed with rifles And old cannons rang across ghosted battlefields, ignited by white men playing dress up Meanwhile, the Whole Foods closed early a black car bullet-riddled sat in the parking lot lives hung like question marks Meanwhile, a coworker protested practices and policies targeting her body her skin her sanity Meanwhile, congress sent 4o billion to fuel another war overseas Meanwhile, a teenager entered a building pointed a weapon re-enacted the carnage Meanwhile, flies buzzed in and out doors opened and shut re-telling the tragedy lessons unlearned history repeats And the yard grew full of life green, uncontrollable I sat and watched connected the dots felt little one kick, hoped against hope
Protest Poem
I hold you in my thoughts like a prayer, though I don’t do much of that these days. I imagine you on the table- clean, sterile, silent. The surgeons peering at your body, scalpels in hand. I imagine you in the streets, just before. Though I’ve never heard your voice I can feel the tenor, the passion, hear the crackling and popping reverberate through worn-out throat. I see your pain, visible minutes before the tear gas canister, shot at close range ripped through shin bone bringing your proud, bloody body to the ground. I hold these images of you and my breath. I wait. I wonder. I bless the doctors, nurses, friends who surround you. I bless the rage in you, the grief, the unhealed wound. I bless, I bless, I bless. And I wish I had helped carry you to safety. That my tears had mixed with your sidewalk blood, that my voice would speak in your silence, be the strength you need to sing, to dance, to stand, a free man.
Thank you for being here, even when the way forward is uncertain. Especially then.
All my love,
Mariah
P.S. What poems are holding you now? Share a line or your favorite poem below. 💗
Literary fiction for these times 🦋
The Pattern Shop wrestles with these same questions—how do we witness violence without looking away? How do we hold hope and heartbreak simultaneously? How do we choose home and each other when the world feels broken? If these poems resonated, Eleanorah's journey through grief, belonging, and fragile hope might speak to you too.
